Fissure
by untertasse
Summary: fissure, n. a narrow opening produced by separation of parts. Just a short one shot about loss, grief, and the small tragic moments in life. A/U. A/H.


Just a fragment that wouldn't leave me alone. I couldn't decide who Alice's husband should be, so I left it up for you to decide who you think is narrating. It's rough road ahead, but I hope you like it.

Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters. All character rights belong to S. Meyer

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He had been sent home. After three solid days at the hospital, his in laws, and the medical staff, had all but physically forced him into the cab and sent the driver on his way. As he stumbled into the dimly lit house he tripped over a pair of pink rain boots and nearly sent his hand through the wall trying to catch himself from falling. Flipping on the light against the encroaching twilight, he surveyed the scene by the front door and tried to cast it in the glare of morning instead of the shadow of dusk. It was almost like a snapshot taken after a tornado had ripped through a town, but with discarded shoes and coats superimposed as the wreckage of debris. He even found he had a title for it;  
 _Aftermath of the Morning Rush_

But for the first time, he had no desire to reach for his camera. There was no way the images of the past 3 days would ever leave his brain anyway. Their negatives were scorched into the back of his mind only to be brilliantly lit up on the canvas of his eyelids every time he attempted to close them and rest. He moved through the house on autopilot, fingers reverently touching the forgotten breakfast dishes on the table, the hairbrush sitting out of place on the sideboard next to the top half of a permission slip, a curdled cup of milk. Moving into the kitchen he surveyed the deflated open bag of bread with just one solitary slice of heel remaining. The sticky jam knife long hardened with its sugary strawberry prisms and a missed glob of jam congealed beneath it. When he reached the sink he looked down to see the lone coffee cup that still bore the pastel kiss of his wife's lipstick at the brim. And he broke.

Sliding to the floor he gripped at the dishtowel hanging from the cabinet door and sobbed until he thought his chest might cleave in half from the pain. His wife. His daughters. His son. After all the worry she had always confessed over his traveling, the endless traveling he took to take the famed pictures at the far corners of the world, it was his own family that was struck down instead. In their very own car. In their very own neighborhood. Not even five miles from home. She had packed up the kids to make the morning school run and never returned. Instead, some rushing, distracted, commuter ran a red light and shattered his family in an instant.

He curled up on the mat in front of the sink and tried to remember how to breathe as the images of his broken family flashed again behind his tightly shut eyes. Vanessa, with patches of her beautiful caramel hair missing so they could stitch together the lacerations on her head from the glass. Riley, with his broken arm and a concussion. Little Bree, still under sedation after having surgery to repair the bleed in her brain. And his wife, Alice. His beautiful darling wife, with almost her entire left side crushed in from the car's impact. Whose face was swollen and distorted and almost unrecognizable from the cuts and bruises and the broken nose, and that horrible ventilator sticking out of her mouth. That horrid machine that was possibly the only thing still keeping her alive.

With that last thought he started a bit and tried to sit up. She might still be alive in there. They were doing an EEG first thing in the morning to test for brain activity, which is why her parents had sent him home for a shower and some sleep. He hadn't washed himself since before he boarded the plane on Thursday to come home, and now it was Sunday night. Rousing himself he grabbed onto the edge of the sink to haul himself up and just tried to maintain equilibrium as his eyes fixed on the pink outline of his wife's lip on the edge of her mug. Carefully picking it up and putting it to the side so it wouldn't be disturbed, he turned on the water, letting it heat as hot as he could stand before soaking the sponge and squeezing out the excess. He started on the countertops, attacking the spot of jam and throwing out the stale bread and bread bag. Then he cleaned off the table, collecting the dirty dishes, the cup of milk. Wiping up crumbs and rinsing out the bloated cereal from the bowls. He set the foyer to rights, returning coats to their hooks and boots to their cubbys. He put back the hairbrush, tacked the permission slip to the calendar and then swept the kitchen floor and emptied the garbage. With a detached nervous energy he climbed upstairs to the bedrooms and pulled out a small duffle. He went into each of the children's rooms and grabbed clean underwear and clothes, their slippers and a stuffed animal off of each of their beds. He put everything by the door to take tomorrow before locking up and heading back upstairs to shower and change.

Emerging from the master bath afterwards in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms he surveyed the bed and noticed Alice's robe draped over the end of the footboard. He lifted it carefully to his face and inhaled, surrounding himself with the essence of her scent for a few torturous moments as the deep ache in his chest intensified. Realization dawned as he lowered the fabric and stared down at their bed. He couldn't sleep here. There was no way he would be able to find any restful slumber without her next to him. Replacing the robe he exited the room and passed through the hallway. He wouldn't fit in Bree's toddler bed, and didn't think slamming his head on Riley's bunkbeds was very appealing either. Pushing the door open to Vanessa's room he rearranged the plush pillows and dolls and wrapped himself in her flowered comforter. Burying his face into his daughter's pillow and breathing in her faint smell of oranges and vanilla he dropped into a deep slumber. Finding escape in the few hours of sleep that would delay the reality of the coming dawn.

- _fin_

Thanks for reading!


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